


The Benefits Of Tea

by ObsidianButterfly



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Desk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Ownership, slave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianButterfly/pseuds/ObsidianButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grandmaster Crawford Starrick calls for tea, and a few extras on top of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Benefits Of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon on my tumblr who requested Starrick. The man creeps me out, but I do love a bad guy, and watching him all angry in his shirtsleeves punching his desk... left me very hot and bothered. Very dubious consent and forced consent in this so be warned if you have any squicks.

 

Carefully balancing the packed silver tray in one hand, you reach out to gently knock the heavy wooden door with your other. Knuckles wrapping on the wood, the noise echoes uneasily through the hallway and into the room beyond.

Taking a deep steadying breath, and wiping sweating palms against your clothing, you listen for an answering voice within.

It’s not that you were overtly scared or nervous around Mr Crawford Starrick, but there was some niggling thing at the back of your mind when you were in his presence that made your back automatically straighten and your skin tingle. Whether it was the quiet, but powerful, demeanour, his unwavering sense of self-worth and authority, or the cold, icy-blue eyes ever scrutinising, you were unsure and couldn't quiet put your finger on it.

Your stomach tended to flutter nervously around the man, conscious of making sure that everything was just right and to his liking.

There is an answering, 'enter ' from behind the door in a deep, refined voice, and you open it cautiously so as to not jostle the tray you are carrying.

As you step through the doorway the intimidating present of the man automatically hits you. Dark colours adorn the walls, Templar insignia decorates the room leaving no doubt as to his affiliation, and even the soft furnishings do not seem particularly inviting. Starrick's office was his domain, where others came to offer supplication like a subject to their king. You were not supposed to feel at home, or at ease.

You find Crawford Starrick standing, imposing and straight backed, behind his desk, a faint sheen from his sleeked back dark hair and black leather jacket. The Templar cross around his neck glimmers from the dim gas -lit room. With a quick appraising glance in your direction, he continues pacing around his desk, resuming dictating his letter with another servant, Alfred. Starrick's voice is smooth, clear and refined. It's not what you would call warm, or inviting, but is not exactly harsh. You have never heard him raise his voice above normal speaking level. He doesn't need to. Just the slightest infliction in that purring voice and a dangerous flash playing in those icy eyes can send grown men and women scurrying for cover.

Closing the door silently behind you, consciously aware of the smallest noise, you grimace at the slight clink of china on the tray, but are thankfully ignored by the Grandmaster.

'Your tea, Mr Starrick, Sir.' You say softly so as to not truly interrupt his diction.

Without a pause or stammer, he idly waves an elegant hand in the direction of his desk, not bothering to afford a backwards glance at you.

The large, dark- almost black, wooden desk is just as intimidating as the rest of him and takes up most of the view by the window.

Carefully setting your filled tray onto the desk, trying to make as little noise as possible, you begin carefully sitting out his tea just the way the boss likes it.

Mr Starrick is a creature of habit, and rules. The earl grey tea must be made fresh and left to stew for exactly six minutes. The delicate china cup set in its saucer, with handle turned outwards to the right so that he can pick it up in his right hand. Just the smallest dash of milk in the bottom of the cup, then filled three quarters of the way with the fresh brew. With a sweet tooth, the Grandmaster requires three lumps of sugar.

You are still busy adding the sugar to his cup when he finishes speaking, dismissing the clerk to finish drafting the relevant letters. The soft leather of his long coat creaks slightly as he moves closer to sit in his chair. The fur decorating the cuff brushes a patch of bare skin on your arm as you try and edge out of his way, but his fingers linger against you briefly, cupping your elbow to steady you as he moves you bodily from his way. The leather of his black gloves feels strangely warm against your skin, and you involuntary shiver as you quickly add a silver spoon to the side of his saucer. He prefers to stir his own tea.

'Your tea as you asked, Mr Starrick, Sir.' You offer, slipping the cup and saucer where he can reach.

'Thank you.' He says automatically, lifting the china and taking a small sip. He sighs heavily as you busy yourself tidying everything back onto the tray, not daring to meet his gaze. But it doesn't stop you feeling the weight of it on the back of your neck.

He mumbles about something or other while he takes his tea, some assassin threatening his factories and killing his men. He is venting, your input or opinion is not truly wanted or expected. He talks as if you are another decoration in the room, a sounding board to reiterate his own self-worth.

Tray clear, perhaps you can escape quickly back to the kitchen now that the Grandmaster has been served.

'Can I get you anything else, Sir?' You offer, hoping that he says no.

Cold wintery blue eyes search heatedly over you, every inch scrutinised. The cup is placed delicately back in its saucer without a sound as those eyes never leave your own.

Usually, when Mr Starrick pays too much attention to someone, it's never a good thing, and you automatically shrink inwardly to avoid being a target. Licking your suddenly dry lips, you try to keep your heartbeat under control awaiting his wrath of displeasure over something that you have no idea what for.

The Templar’s eyes flicker away from yours down to the top of his desk, running his leather gloved hands across the polished wood. You breathe a small sigh of relief at not being under such intense scrutiny, but you find yourself doing the same; gaze fixed on those long, leather-covered digits sliding smoothly over the surface of the desk. You swallow rising panic at his predatorily controlled demeanour.

Starrick takes another small sip of tea before sitting the cup down, one finger caresses the patterns across the china, stroking idly down the curve as those eyes turn back to you. 

'I'm in the mood for something sweet with my tea.' He says without any sort of emotion.

You are unsure as to his meaning, and Mr Starrick doesn't joke.

You blink at him, mind full of cotton wool. 'The cook has just made a fresh cake to go along with supper. I'm sure it's cool by now. I-I could...'

Starrick chuckles deeply, eyes crinkling in humour as if you had said something infinitely funny.  He fixes you with that impenetrable stare and beckons one gloved finger at you.

Your feet automatically shuffle closer the last few inches until your legs are nearly touching his sitting behind his desk.

The Grandmaster stands, imposing and intimidating, looming over you in that severe black outfit. He indicates that you should sit down and you take pause, pulse hammering nervously in your throat.

'You- you want me to sit in your chair, Sir?' You ask, confused, looking to stall whatever he has planned.

'Sit.' He commands sternly as you fail to comply quickly enough, and your knees buckle under you, tumbling your body into his chair.

You perch on the edge, body stiff, trying not to think about what you are doing and awaiting the Grandmasters next move. If you follow his orders, exactly as asked, then maybe, just maybe, he won't hurt you.

Starrick disappears from your vision, circling being you and you don't quite have the nerve to follow him with your gaze.

You jump, letting out a startled, shaky, breath when two large hands suddenly rest on your shoulders. He kneads them almost gently, tenderly, and a small bead of sweat trickles down your spine at his touch.

Rising from the chair, you attempt to stand but don't get far. 'Sir, I should finish my-'

Long, nimble fingers tighten over your shoulders; pinching your skin and pushing you back down into the chair. The leather covered hand begins caressing the bare column of your throat, thumb training small, enticing, circles across your skin.

Shivering under his touch, you fight back a small, surprising, whimper of pleasure by biting your lip hard.

A warm breath tickles across the back of your neck and you can sense his presence close to you. Leaning over the back of the chair, face inches from you, you hear Starrick inhales deeply, the tip of his nose brushing your hairline at the back of your neck. Strong fingers thread through your hair, tugging your head to the side to grant better access, and your pulse speeds in unease.

A warm, wet, rough, tongue licks slowly along your taught neck from your collar to chin, leaving a cooling trail of saliva across your skin.  It leaves you shuddering, part in pleasure at the sensation, part in fear; you know what he wants now, and he is the Grandmaster, refusal is unaccepted.

The press of lips follow the path of his tongue, your breath coming in heavy pants as he ignores your pleas to stop.  The whiskers from his moustache tickle your sensitive skin sending a wave of goosebumps shivering down your spine.

Starrick chuckles at your reaction, a deep purring sound that reverberates through your entire body. Strong male fingers tighten against your upper arms, easing you from the chair to your feet.

Legs shaking, you are pushed backwards until your backside rests against the edge of Starrick’s desk, facing the man in question. Numb from shock at his treatment, and what he is expecting from you, your body is directed easily, without protest, allowing yourself to be guided by his firm touch.

Starricks still-gloved fingers wind around the ties of your starched white apron. All staff wear the same clothing. A shapeless black shift-dress from collar to ankle and a white apron covering. The men were expected to wear black trousers and jackets instead. Templar insignia sewn into a band on the sleeve marks you as his, not necessarily the order, the Grandmaster’s personal property.

The apron loosens easily and falls to the floor, and you watch the garment flutter away in apprehension. Unable to look the man in from of you in the eye, a blush creeps across your cheeks at the just the thought of what he was doing, and more on what he was planning on doing.

Starrick tugs the dress, indicating that it should be removed, and your hands automatically tighten around the fabric in panic, holding it to your body, unable to face the embarrassment of being naked in his presence. But the Grandmaster persists, tugging the lightweight material over your head and removing any undergarments until you are bare to his gaze and shivering.

The fabric of his coat and clothing scrape against your skin as he leans close, heated gaze wandering every exposed inch, hands wandering along your curves until you feel light headed from the heat in your cheeks, swimming in conflicting emotions of shame and arousal.

The leather is cool against your skin as his gloved hand curls around your collar, stroking the bare column of your throat with his thumb. He leaves no question that all he would need to do is squeeze with those powerful fingers and there would be nothing you could do to stop him.

His caress moves downwards, roughly squeezing your breasts, fingers fleeting over peaking nipples. He grabs handfuls of the flesh at your hips, your arse, anywhere he chooses, and you find yourself whimpering under his touch, unable to stop. He's sizing you up in much the same way that a butcher would a piece of meat at market, weighting you, measuring you…contemplating devouring you.

You are his property. You can see it in his face, and know it, as surely as the men and women working in the factories are his, the carriage bearing his name outside, the crate of tea in the kitchen, even the desk under you. His. All his. His property to use as he sees fit.

'Lie back on the desk.' He states, softly, but he is not asking, and already uses his hands on your hips to position your body.

The wood is cool under your bare skin as you slip onto it backwards, eyes warily on the man in front of you.

Your stomach flutters in nervousness of what is coming next. Never in your wildest dreams did you expect to be naked on Mr Starrick's desk, with the man in question intent on fucking you. Would it hurt so terribly, you wonder, as your back connects with the cool desktop. What would he do when finished? Would you be fired...or would he expect this every time that you delivered his tea?

Starrick has all the advantages, the position, and the power; even now he is still fully clothed in face of your complete nakedness. His leather gloves feel cool against your bare skin as he positions you on his desk just right, with a small, satisfied quirk to his lips.

The Templar drags your backside towards the edge of the table until you are almost hanging off. Without shame, he forces your legs open wide, exposing your pussy intimately to his scrutiny, before bending your knees so that your heels rest on the table top, leaving him between your spread legs. His clothes bites against your skin as he leans over you, heavier body crushing you under his weight.

Hands skim across up your body, pausing for a few fleeting caresses at particularly sensitive spots that have you writhing and moan under him. Lips hover just above yours, almost moving in for a kiss, but he stills, centimetres from closing the small space. Warm puffs of breath caress your slightly parted lips, he smells faintly of tobacco and earl grey tea and find yourself licking your lips in anticipation of that first kiss.

Those cold, icy blue eyes watch you, analysing every movement, every reaction, to his touch. Kissing you on the lips seems to intimate a gesture and he doesn't close that final space, even as your back arches wildly when his fingers slink down between your legs to stroke the curls there gently.

His touch sends a thrill of pleasure through your body, despite reservations. You expected a rough, brutal coupling, maybe even just to be directed to your knees to suck his cock. You hadn’t expected care and a delicate touch, for him to start creating a warm, wet, heat between your legs.

When the Templar pulls away, taking the warm of his body and caress of cloth, it's with a low, almost disappointed, moan from you. 

Lifting his tea cup, Starrick takes another delicate sip while you lie gazing up at him, awaiting his next move. He sets the cup back in its saucer and then mysteriously sits it onto of your stomach. The cup and saucer balance precariously on its makeshift table and begins rattling gently in time with your breathing.

The Grandmaster’s lip quirks as he surveys his handiwork.

‘Don’t spill a drop.' He commands.

Spill? Why would you spill it?

You watch him in confusion, heat from the china warming your skin. Dragging his chair closer towards the desk, Starrick sinks into it between your open legs and you need to ease up onto your elbows and crane your neck to continue watching him. As you move, the cup rattles precariously, threating to slide off of your body.

‘Careful.’ The Templar purrs with a small, evil, smirk.

He wouldn't...

Soft leather gently caresses your hips in small circles, and your breath hitches sharply as he lowers his head.

Starrick kisses, surprisingly lightly, the inside of your thighs from knees to almost your crotch. The coarse hair of his sideburns tickles your sensitive skin and sets of a fresh array of wiggling on his desk.

You hadn’t expected _that_ from him. Or gentleness for that matter.

He inches closer to your sex and your breathing begins coming in short, heavy, pants. Every wiggle of your body upsetting the cup resting on top of you, and each rattle of the china draws a small predatory smile from the Grandmaster.

You focus on breathing hard, trying to still your body under his seducing touch. He never mentioned what the consequences would be if you failed the task that he had given you and you are not sure that you want to find out.

Your heart races, pulse speeding, as he closes the space between your legs. By the time Starrick has leisurely meandered upwards along your skin, breath disturbing the curls between your legs, you lower muscles are clenching in anticipation and know you are shamefully wet for him already. As his gloved hand reaches out to pet you, a low strangled noise escapes from between your lips. Propped up on elbows, you watch the Templar with wide eyes, much as a mouse watches snakes waiting to strike.

Using two fingers of his left hand, Starrick parts your outer folds, exposing the glistening skin between your legs and your straining clit. A gloved finger briefly swipes across you, coming away slick with your arousal.

Starrick’s penetrating gaze meet yours, observing him in confusion as he sucks the digit into his mouth, tasting you.

He chuckles lowly. ‘You are probably wondering I’m not fucking you, hmmm? Taking what I want in spite of your protest...raping you...' His lips quirks, voice low and intimate, shivering across your skin just like his words. 'The sweetest nectar comes from pleasure.'

As if to prove his point, he places a finger side of your already swollen clit and begins rubbing, oh so gently, up and down. It’s barely any movement at all, but you feel it all the way to your toes, Pleasure curling up your spine and leaving your head buzzing.

Starrick dips his head, the rough, wide flat pad of his tongue scrapping your clit and the scream from your mouth in gratification was indecent. Your hips arch widely off of the table towards the source of your pleasure and you suddenly remember the cup, making a grab for it before it could slip off your body.

'Ah ah, you’re not allowed to use your hands.' Starrick purrs, as you place the cup back in position.

'Flat on the table, if you will.' He directs, mouth hovering just over your pussy.

Your clammy hands spread wide, trying to hold on for dear life as your body spirals out of control at his expert touch. Nails scratching futilely against the wood, you are quickly covered in a fine sheen of sweat, pussy throbbing with each scrape of his tongue and the steady caress of soft leather beside your clit.

The bristles of his moustache scrape the sensitive hood of your clit as his tongue delves between your folds and your hips arch off of the desk again causing the cup to wobble precariously, a little tea escaping over the bring and splashing the saucer underneath.

The Grandmaster glances up from between your legs, smirking. 'I warned you. No spilling.'

You can’t do this. There no way you can lie still while his mouth and hands inch you towards orgasm, while your boss plays with your body as if it is his personal toy.

'Force can be so…counterproductive.’ Starrick hums against your bare skin, as he rubs the coarse hair of his sideburns against your inner thigh. ‘I could bend you over, _fuck_ you.' His voice purrs over the word ‘ _fuck’_ and you shiver.

'I would enjoy your cries of pain, the resistance in your body. I would have my fleeting satisfaction, but then...nothing.’

Swallowing hard, you watch the shrewd calculating look on his face, totally terrified of the man but strangely hoping that he will be placing that mouth back between your legs.

‘Pleasure will bring you to me, again and again. Needy. Desperate. _Begging_ for more.’ He licks his lips, the smallest smile tugging at the corners and crinkling the skin around his eyes. 'Your body knows its master; your mind will come around soon enough.'

It's his vanity you realise, the mans inflated ego. It's not enough to simply own you; he needs your submission to truly enjoy it. It's not enough to just take what he wants; he wants your body and soul offered, without hesitation.

Two fingers continue their teasing of your clit as his other hand dips lower. The touch of leather so intimate has you panting in want. A thick, leather covered finger penetrates you, fabric scraping enticingly over inner walls and your body clamps down excitedly on the invading digit. 

You can't contain the noises from coming from your mouth as he adds a second finger, gently curling the digits in time with the stroking of your clit.

Despite reservations of being the Grandmasters play thing, you find yourself spiralling towards orgasm, body tense and sore, muscles tightly wound as you try and keep the cup balancing.  Your muscles shake and the cup rattles in the grove of the saucer. Body bucking, you need something to hold onto; scraping fingernails against the desk is not enough. Reaching between your legs, you aim to stroke your fingers through Starrick’s sleek, dark, hair, but it’s too intimate for the Grandmaster and he quickly grabs your hand before you can touch him, curling one gloved hand almost painfully around your fingers.

Allowing you to touch him so casually would give you too much control, you realise. The Grandmaster is in charge of this, of you. You will never be allowed to touch him for your own pleasure, or desires, certainly not unless it was something that he expressly dictated.

The low, disappointed, moan you make when his fingers abandon your clit draws a smirk from the man between your legs.

Starrick stands while you watch him eagerly, wide eyed and breathing hard. Having been just denied an amazing orgasm, you will admit that you are disappointed. 

Starrick darts out his tongue to taste your cum from his fingers, teeth gripping the leather he pulls the gloves off slowly, one finger at a time. The coat is the next to go as he carefully, meticulously, sheds his pristine clothing.

Your heart races, body still flushed from pleasure, you have never seen the man quite so...naked.

Left in just his breeches and shirt, the Templar rolls up his starched white shirtsleeves to reveal amazingly muscled and defined forearms. The collar of his shirt is loosened the first few buttons, to show long pale throat with just the hint of dark chest hair peaking over the top.

He refills his tea watching you, knowing fully well you are more eager for him now than you had been earlier. Resuming using you as his desk, Starrick pulls up his chair once more.

The first touch of his warm, bare skin against yours leaves you mewling like a kitten for more, and the Templar smiles at your reaction, thoroughly pleased. His fingers are so soft and warm massaging your thighs; it’s a totally different sensation form the gloves and you think that you might just prefer this better, no barriers.

This time there are no distractions, both of his hands covering yours, pinning them to the table top to prevent further exploration as his mouth delves eagerly between your legs. Bathed by his tongue, the dexterous appendage penetrates you briefly, creating a swooping sensation as your body suddenly craves something bigger slipping inside of you.

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling the engorged nub across his tongue you gasp for more.

'Please…oh, please, Sir.' You breathe, unable to work up the courage to actually call him Crawford. 

He tugs on the sensitive hood of your clit, drawing the skin between his lips as he pulls back slightly.

‘Tell me.’ He asks softly. ‘Would you like me to stop?’

Licking your dry lips, voice hoarse from moaning, your pleasure-drugged brain can barely string two sentences together. Why would you ever want him to stop?

‘I’ll let you up, you can go, and we will speak no more of it.’

‘I-‘ You don’t know what to say, you are so very close…just a little more.

The tip of the Grandmasters tongue traces around your labia, awaiting your decision.

‘You want me?’ He says as he places gentle kisses, intimately.

‘Yes.’ You mumble, scared of your own answer and the tremor in your voice.

‘You want me to make you cum?’

You can only think of one reply. ‘Yes.’

He chuckles, pleased at your response, his work complete. ‘Tell me what you would be willing to do for such…pleasure.’

‘ _Anything_.’ You breathe, barely audibly, but he heard it.

He smirks at you, cold calculating eyes flashing in triumph.

Your gaze dips away from his, cheeks burning in embarrassment, how easy it was for him to own you. Dangle a little pleasure in front of you, and you all but rolled over to play his pet.

Your shame doesn't last long, your reward is forthcoming as his warm, wet mouth covers your sex quickly, delving between your folds to lap greedily at you.

You lose control of your body, thighs shaking, white hot light hazing your vision as orgasm ripples through your clit to every extremity, every nerve ending in your body. Your screams are violent and loud, but no one would come running to check what was wrong, no one would dare.

Gasping for breath, you glance down at the man still positioned between your legs, his lips wet and cheeks pink, a little strand of hair falling in front of his eyes which is quickly smoothed back to its impeccable neatness.

Starrick glances towards the cup that he had precariously balanced on your tummy, the saucer is full of spilled tea and some of the liquid has run down your skin.

You swallow hard giving him a frightened look, unsure what to expect for disobeying orders.

There is the slightest quirk of lips as he surveys the damage but he says nothing for the moment. Removing the cup and setting it back on the tray, he stands, leaning over your prone body and dipping his head to lick the rivulets of cold tea from your bare skin.

Once finished, he straightens looking exactly like the uptight, imposing Templar Grandmaster everyone scurries from.

'You'll do better next time.' He states in confidence, more of an order, and you find yourself nodding agreement mutely.

'My tea is unfortunately cold. Please fetch a fresh tray.'

Hoping off the desk you quickly, ashamedly gather your clothing, struggling into the garments and aware of his close scrutiny.

'Yes Mr Starrick, Sir.' You mumble to the floor, unable to look him in the eye as you pick up the tray and make a dash for the door while you are being allowed to escape.

He doesn't bother putting his jacket back on, returning to sit behind his desk, hawk-like gaze watching you blushing all the way out the door with a small smirk.


End file.
